


It's Better When it Feels Wrong

by Norsenightingale



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knifeplay, Loss of Virginity, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norsenightingale/pseuds/Norsenightingale
Summary: Ivar gets what he wants.





	It's Better When it Feels Wrong

Ivar had spent the majority of his life learning to deal with his disability. It was always on the forefront of his mind; always the thing that occupied his thoughts when no one else was around. His brothers had, intentionally or not, made it seem quite clear that no woman would choose to be him willingly. Why would they? Certainly, a man with all working limbs would be far favorable to a cripple. Perhaps that was why it was so hard for him to open up to any other person, let alone one he had only known for a few months.

The man had peaked your interest immediately when you met him, but for reasons far more complicated than his legs. The fire in his eyes was unmatched by anything you had ever seen, and you could tell that there was something incredible buried inside of him. Ever since the day you arrived in Kattegat, you had made it your mission to break down the stone walls of Ivar the Boneless.

That was how you found yourself in the current position, sitting cross-legged in the metal shop as you watched the men go about their business. Ivar was intensely focused on his task, sharpening the blade of a dagger into a terrifying point. You inspected him closely, watching how his fingers stayed the perfect distance away from the edge so as not to cut himself, but not too far away that he couldn’t work.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He snapped, his eyes suddenly focused on you. You fumbled for a minute, trying to figure out what to say to him without looking like a dunce.

“I uh… was just admiring the knife,” you lied, “it looks very well crafted.” Ivar seemed to believe it, flipping the weapon in the air and holding it out so that you could take it by the handle. You accepted gingerly, surprised at how heavy the blade felt in your small palm.

“It has been a long project but I think I have it almost finished,” he spoke. He watched as you ran your fingers along the filigree on the tip, admiring the intricate detail work inlaid in the metal.

“Did you do all of this yourself?” You asked. He nodded a small smirk on the side of his mouth with pride. “You have talent, Ivar.” He refused the compliment, taking the piece back from you and setting it on the work bench. The stool creaked as he shifted his weight, causing him to wince at the change of positions.

You noticed the sudden displacement of his demeanor, his eyes wrinkled at the shooting pain in his legs. You stood up, reaching out a hand to see if there was something you could do for him but retracted it just as quickly as you extended it. His glare shot straight through you, sending a chill through your limbs.

“Don’t pity the cripple, Y/N,” he seethed, “I don’t need anyone pretending like they care.” Ivar returned to his dagger, oblivious to the way his harsh words stung. You rolled your eyes, reminding yourself of his past somewhat unprovoked attacks; it was just a part of who he was.

“Pity is one of the last things I feel for you, Ivar,” you shrugged off his comment. It was still early in the morning, and if he was behaving like that already, there would be no point in attempting to speak with him for the rest of the day. You decided it would be best to leave him to his work and excused yourself from the metal shop.

“Where are you going?” He huffed as he watched you walk away. You didn’t pay him any attention, waving your hand behind you as you walked off toward the village center.

“To find someone not quite so vile. Far vel (goodbye), Ivar.”

_____________________________

You giggled as you exited the tavern, a pleasant warmth filling your stomach with the alcohol you had consumed. You parted ways cheerfully with the young man you were speaking to. Eirik, you had learned, was a friend of your father’s. An interesting sailor from the North with endless stories and an even temperament, you had decided he was good company for the evening.

A strong arm surprised you as you through the streets, pulling you inside the house and shutting the door. It wrapped itself around your mouth, suppressing the scream that was bubbling in your throat.

“Who were you with?” The owner of the arms hissed, and you recognized the voice immediately as Ivar. You broke free from his grasp, turning to face the older man in the darkness of the home you now recognized as the Ragnarssons. How much ale had you consumed? You wondered

“Why does it matter?” You taunted him, clearly amused with his jealousy. He grasped your forearm again, tighter this time, enough to leave a bruise.

“Was that Eirik?” he seethed, venom dripping from his words. You raised a brow at him, a smile on your face at the exact reaction you had wanted. “I told you he was not a good man, and that I didn’t want you around him. Why did you disobey me?” You twisted your arm but he held firm, pulling you into his chest.

“You do not own me, Ivar, I may speak to whoever I wish,” you snapped “besides, Father may have a need for me to speak with him. He is an accomplished sailor with several ships, perhaps something may be in order…”

The fury in his eyes was evident as he realized the context of your words. He couldn’t bare the thought of the only woman he cared for to be married to another man, so he thought of a way to make sure that would never happen. He pulled you across the room with his strong arms, sitting on the corner of his bed and tugging you across his lap.

“Ivar! I am not a child, let me go!” You demanded, but Ivar laid a quick slap to your backside.

“Your father should have taught you some manners, but since that drunken bastard isn’t here, I suppose I will have to be the one to teach you how to speak to a man.” He smacked you several times, his large palm landing harshly on your bottom.

Your dress helped to deflect some, but the stinging pain was still certainly there. He held you down firmly across his legs when he apparently decided he no longer wanted you to have any protection from him. He began impatiently tugging at your skirts, muttering something similar to “Well this won’t do, will it?”

He tossed you around like a ragdoll, pinning you down to his bed with his body weight into a more comfortable position. Your eyes were squeezed shut in order to prepare yourself for whatever he was about to do, but you could hear him rummaging for something off to the side. The sound of tearing fabric was what finally forced you to look up at him, shocked to see him actually cutting away the layers of your dress from your body.

He ran the blade over the newly exposed skin, not pressing hard enough to cut but still causing you to shake from the anticipation of the pain.  
“You were admiring this earlier, how about I show you what it can do?” You braced yourself as he pressed into the flesh across your chest, small beads of blood appearing in its path. You squirmed, whining at the strange mixture of sensations.

“My little, Y/N,” he spoke, “you must hold still. You don’t want me to cut too deeply, now.” You fought the urge to move, then, trying to ignore the stinging pain as he pressed the dagger across your body.

“Very good,” he hummed as he finished his work. “You mark up so beautifully with that pale skin.” You winced as he brought his hand down to press against your side, dangerously close to one of the cuts.

“Ivar, please stop,” you cried, “it hurts.” His hand roughly grasped your hair into a fist, pushing you off of his bed and onto the floor in one quick motion.

“Oh, little princess thinks that she can be the boss, hmm? Well fine, I have something else to keep you busy.” He kept your hair firm with one hand while the other busied itself with pulling his trousers to his knees. You stared, frightened, as his large length stood proud against his abdomen. He tugged slightly, pulling you forward toward his lap.

“Breathe through your nose and relax your throat.” You didn’t hesitate, hoping that this would be enough to appease him. He wasted no time at all, thrusting his hips up to meet the back of your throat as soon as you put your lips on him. The urge to gag was ever present, but you willed yourself to relax as he fucked into your mouth. You had never felt so used in your entire life, and yet you found it oddly - satisfying. Surely the Gods would punish you for these improper feelings.

Ivar’s hips sputtered as he came in your mouth, hot spurts hitting the back of your throat with his high. You grasped tightly to his knees, trying to push yourself away but he kept you held firm until he was finished.

“Swallow,” he instructed you, his thumb brushing the seam of your closed lips. Never in your life had one simple word made you feel so angry, but you were not in control here and you knew it. Grimacing, you did as you were told. The taste wasn’t terrible, almost like a salty brine, but it was his smug face that made the flames leap in your stomach.

“Now open.”

You tried to ignore the last demeaning request, keeping your mouth firmly shut and challenging him with your eyes. He rolled his own blue ones, grasping your chin and forcing your mouth open himself. He seemed extremely pleased when he saw there wasn’t a drop left on your tongue, humming in contentment.

“Good girl,” he smiled down at you, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ivar ran his open palm across your cheek and down toward your chin, his calloused fingers feeling like sand against your delicate skin. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly against the touch. If past experience was anything to go by, he could very easily raise his hand in a slap if he so felt the desire.

You were mentally preparing yourself for the strike when his fingers paused at the column of your neck. An involuntary gasp left your lips as they began to tighten, winding around your windpipe like a snake on its prey.

“Look at you,” he cooed, “so trusting. I wonder if you actually want this or if you just have a desire to avoid me killing you.” One of his large hands was still firmly grasped on your neck while the other slithered its way down your torso. Ivar cupped your entire sex with his palm, his middle finger roughly dipping into the center of you. He chuckled when he pulled the hand away, marveling at the glistening slick on the digit.

“I knew you were a little whore, look at how wet you are. Why don’t you see for yourself?” You refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging your arousal, shifting your eyes to stare down at the floor. His hand tightened around your neck, pushing you back up to face him. “Behave yourself, vænn (beautiful), unless you’d like me to take you over my knee again?”

The remaining burn of your backside was enough to force you to cooperate with him, not wanting any more attention paid to the sore flesh. You reluctantly brought your eyes back to his face, parting your lips just so that he could slide the wet finger between them. He grinned at your compliance, pressing down softly on your tongue as you sucked it clean.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he praised, “you were made for this. For me.” He took his finger from your mouth but kept the other hand tight. “What do you think, shall I take you now?” He asked, pressing back into your wetness with his fingertip. “Certainly you’re ready.”

Suddenly the realization of what Ivar was about to do came flooding over you, and you tried to wriggle away from his grasp. “Ivar, you cannot…” you gasped as his grip around your throat tightened. A warm tingling began taking over your body as he denied your air for only a moment.

“Oh, Y/N, who is to stop me?” His laugh was dark, unlike anything you had ever heard. This wasn’t the Ivar you had known. This Ivar was confident in his abilities, bloodthirsty, and prepared to take what he wanted - by whatever means necessary.

He pinned you down effortlessly to the furs of his bed with his torso, nudging your things apart with his hips. You could feel his erection pressing into your lower stomach, long and heavy again with his need.

“Ivar do not do this! You do not have to do this,” you pleaded with him. He groaned at your words, pressing closer into your heat. He attached his lips to your collarbone, kissing and biting in an attempt to silence you.

“You do not understand, do you?” he taunted, “you will learn your place and when your father realizes his precious daughter is no longer untouched, well- your hand in marriage will not be up for negotiation with Eirik, will it?” You squirmed at his words, hopelessly trying to wiggle out from underneath him.

Obviously done speaking, Ivar began to press inside you completely, holding tightly onto your hips to keep you spread open. The thickness of his cock was almost unbearable, incessantly tearing away at your maidenhood. You cried out at the pain but he was intent on having his way, enjoying the way his name sounded falling fearfully from your lips.

Ivar had never felt more powerful than he did at that moment, completely overwhelmed at how small and frail you felt under his body. He knew that it would hurt when he first took you but was unprepared for the amount of blood that finally claiming you would produce. When he pulled away from you, he was entranced at the few drops that fell on the linens, moaning as his cock twitched in delight.

“That’s right, bleed for me, áræði (darling). Mark up these sheets so that no-one dares to question who you belong to.” He sheathed himself fully back inside you, your body spasming as it struggled to stretch around the unfamiliar intrusion.

“Do you feel that? Your kunta is welcoming me to its home,” he gasped hotly in your ear. You began to whimper as his thrusts became more erratic, small sparks of pleasure igniting in your lower regions.

“Ivar,” he smirked as you moaned his name, bringing his thumb down to rub at your clit.

“I want you to come apart with me. Let yourself feel everything that I give to you.” His hips slowly began tiring, thrusts growing sloppy as he approached his peak. As Ivar finally hit the edge of his pleasure, hot seed pumping deep inside of you, you hit yours as well. Your legs trembled with the contractions of your inner walls, his husky sounds of pleasure more arousing than you could have imagined.

He let himself soften inside of you before pulling out, watching the mixture of the two of you and your blood spill onto his bed. You didn’t move when he crawled off of you, retrieving a cloth from the basin on the table, too lost in the shock waves of your orgasm.

“Spread your legs for me, áræði (darling)” he commanded, kneeling at the foot of the bed once again. You shook you head no, exhausted and terrified that he was going to touch your already over-stimulated body. He laid a soft kiss on your knee cap, causing your leg to jerk away from the contact. “Shh… I’m not going to hurt you anymore. We’re done, I just want to clean you.”

You relaxed a bit at that, allowing your knees to fall open so that Ivar could begin to wipe away the dried blood from your thighs. The warm wetness of the cloth was soothing, and you sighed as he rubbed over a few of the cuts. If you would have had any of your wits about you, you would have been appalled at the thought of a man so intimately washing you. After the events that just occurred, however, this seemed a puppy-dog declaration of love.

Ivar was intensely focused on the what he was doing. No longer fueled by his anger and lust, his mind was clear to lavish attention to your body. He carefully tended to every mark his blade had made, extremely aware of the sickening enjoyment he got when he thought of them scarring - marking you his forever.

“Scoot down a bit, let me clean your breasts.”

You didn’t fight at all this time, sliding your back across the covers of the bed. He helped you by tugging on your ankle, lying it over his lap when you got close enough. He worked the warm cloth against your chest, his eyes widening slightly when he realized the extent of the damage he had done.

Several long cuts stretched across your chest and hips, and several smaller ones marked your abdomen. The biggest wound he caused, though, he knew wasn’t from his knife. His thumbs gently stroked your sides, the rag forgotten and brought his forehead to rest on your lower stomach. He let it rise and fall with the steady rhythm of your breathing, wondering why you hadn’t tried to run away from him yet.

You looked down at his furrowed brow, trying to decide what must be going on in his tormented mind. He sighed when your fingers began to drag themselves through his long hair, acting on their own accord. At first, he stiffened from the unexpected touch, but his whole body seemed to deeply relax once he understood what it meant.

“Ivar,” you whispered, “I’m not upset with you.”

His deep blue eyes met yours, a storm of emotion hidden in them. At that moment, you understood Ivar would never fully let you inside his walls - his soul was dark and he would forever be haunted by his demons - but you also didn’t care. You had never seen him more at peace than you did when he was marking up your skin, and if that is what he needed from you, you had no reservations about being his personal sacrifice.


End file.
